


Harry Potter and the Peahen from Perdition

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Humor, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Kneazles, M/M, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Owls, POV Harry Potter, Peacocks, Pet Minder Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Puns & Word Play, Romance, Secondary Theme: Pet Fair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Harry is a pet-sitter and Draco hires him to mind the peacocks while he's away on business. The peacocks do not like Harry. There's no way he'll do it again. But Draco keeps hiring him, and damn it Harry can't say no. From the prompter: “Peacocks bite Harry's arse; Draco has a salve for that; see where I'm going with this?” Oh, Ido, darling!





	Harry Potter and the Peahen from Perdition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/gifts), [megyal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/gifts).

> For Prompt #[83](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> This is full of alliteration. And puns. You know, the Basic Stuff of Life. I thought of megyal all through it for some reason so this is also a small weird tribute to this wonderful author. I thought of all the kind people I know who devote so much love, time and resources to rescuing animals that have been abandoned or mistreated and I thank you all so much. Pax and prosper, always. My profound adoration for the Mods (always!), A03 (awesome beyond compare), my primary beta (superlative H. sapiens, lonerofthepack) and the delightful prompter, MaesterChill, who excelled with this one. Hope I did justice to it, darlings.

“Never again, Malfoy! Never.” A meaningful glare accompanied this. “Again.”

“What? No, Pot--”

“Don’t even. Go there.” 

Harry, beet-faced and panting, firmed his stance by the gate of Malfoy Manor, bound and determined to depart those accursed grounds as soon as Wizardly possible. He wasn’t about to admit weakness before Malfoy but he would’ve dearly loved to rub his poor abused posterior; it ached like the very dickens and demanded attention. Instead he contented himself with aggressively resettling his smudged spectacles across the bridge of his nose and squinting his eyes quite fiercely at his client, lips pursed. 

“Potter, surely you don’t mean that.” Malfoy seemed fazed, but only slightly. Or rather, his eyebrows did. “You, the keeper of pets, the protector of all things finny, furry and feathery? Impossible! Balderdash, Potter.” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” Harry insisted. Because yes, this was so. Damn it. “Those bloody birds of yours are the worst!” 

Fresh from his most recent afternoon in the Malfoy version of Pet Minding Hell, he considered stamping his trainer on the fastidiously well-raked gravel. He didn’t, but only because his arse hurt far too much to indulge in unnecessary movement. 

“How can you even consider keeping them as pets?” he demanded of an overly sanguine Malfoy. A good tongue lashing would do just as well and hurt Harry far less. “They are not ‘pets’, they are hellions, set upon this earth to destroy me! And a bloody half-Nundu, Malfoy? Tell me again how this feline monstrosity here is supposed to be a lap animal?” 

He absently petted Mr Tumtiddles on his huge furry head, earning himself an appreciative rumble. 

“What? He weighs--what does he even weigh? A quarter tonne? A half? All I know is I’m mostly squashed by this one and very bitten by those blasted birds of yours, and I don’t much care for it, not one bit! As I have told you.” 

“But, Potter.” Malfoy, who was just returned from his latest custom potions delivery and looking windblown and elegantly mussed, swept a hand through his blond mane and finally appeared to be taking the matter seriously. “You _ owe _ me, remember? You said so yourself. Besides, there’s literally no one else I’d trust with Sophronia and the Girls. Mr Tumtiddles would be utterly desolate without you and you know that, too. Look how he’s twining about your feet now, wanting you to stay a while longer?” 

Harry snorted, shrugging carefully. He’d have thought his general air of one having been through the wars was fairly evident and required no further explanation. Malfoy shrugged in return, but with a rueful quirk to one ice-pale brow. Of course, granted he couldn’t see the state of Harry’s much pecked work denims, either.

“_Still._” Malfoy rolled his eyes at Harry, as if not understanding how it was Harry couldn’t just be reasonable. “Tum’s just a kitten and he loves you, Potter; worships the ground upon which you tread--they all do. Even my owl adores you. Never say you’ll abandon them all now? That’s not the old Gryffindor spirit I’m accustomed to, you know. You just can’t mean to leave us, Potter. I simply refuse to believe it.” 

“I can indeed mean that, damn you, and you better well believe it,” Harry snapped, feeling no small amount of pressure. He stiffened his upper lip against it staunchly. “No, no, and again no, is what I said.”

“But--”

Harry remained staunch despite the shooting pains in his legs and the creeping feeling his arse might be visibly swelling. Despite the rising well of guilt Mr Tumtiddle’s continued purrs caused him. He clasped his works robes about himself all the more firmly and settled his satchel with a huff, baring his teeth at Malfoy in his best ‘I am a professional, wanker, even if you’re not, you wily serpent’ smile. It mostly never worked but it was worth trying on, at least. 

”No, no ‘buts’. Not a single ‘but’ out of you, Malfoy. I have my own butt to worry about, ta. Now, I am leaving; it’s been a horribly long day, much longer than was scheduled. Good evening to you and you may send my weekly fee in the morning. Don’t forget to include the extra hours, mind.” He coughed pointedly, eyeing his client’s fabulously dear, clearly bespoke business robes. “There are quite a few of them.” 

“As if!” Malfoy scoffed and threw up a hand up in a careless fashion. “I’m not concerned about the Galleons, Potter.” 

“Bully for you, then,” Harry said grimly. “I am.”

He settled his satchel of supplies more firmly across his shoulder and prepared to Apparate, ignoring Mr Tumtiddles’s antics as best as he could, given that the Merlin-forsaken Kneazle mix came up to his waist at the withers and had the terrible habit of headbutting the back of Harry’s kneecaps when he wanted attention. Which he always wanted and which he wanted also _ right now_, now Harry had ceased his absentminded stroking of those stupidly huge tufted ears.

“Mrow!” said Mr Tumtiddles urgently, sending Harry staggering off his mark by dint of ramming him at concentrated full weight. He wrapped his possibly prehensile tail round Harry’s kneecaps like a tourniquet. “Mrow, meow!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you fluffy idiot,” Harry sighed, righting himself and wishing himself to be gone all the harder. He let go the gate post, reciting the Three D’s under his breath. It was always ever so much more difficult to actually leave Malfoy Manor once its annoying tardy Master returned home. “Hush, you. I’m busy. I have to go now.”

“Meruuu?” Mr Tumtiddles meowed plaintively. “Mrrr?” 

Huh, Harry thought, giving those ears one more fond stroke. Almost as if preventing Harry from leaving was intentional. Or something. 

“Potter! You’re not actually going, are you? Not ‘forever’?” Malfoy, galvanized into action, all grey eyes wide as he extended a pleading hand, just short of Harry’s sleeve. “Please. You mustn’t!” 

“No. I really, really must, I tell you. Find someone else.” 

Harry whisked himself back a prudent step. Destination was at the forefront of his mind. At Grimmauld he could at least find a nice, soft pillow to rest his bum on. At the Manor he would only be subject to yet more effusive blandishments from Malfoy until at last he relented and agreed to return. This scene had played out one too many times for Harry’s poor bum to stand for it willingly again. Or rather sit for it, as it would be the _sitting_ that would be the problem.

“Cheers, then.” 

“But--but whatever will I do?” Malfoy demanded in rising agitation. “You can’t just up and leave me with no pet sitter, Potter. It’s unfair! It’s unGryffindor!” 

“I dunno.” Patiently, Harry opened his eyes again and refocussed on his soon to be ex-client, inwardly swearing it was for the last time. “I mean, there has to be somebody willing to do you a favor and watch over the Flock? Your mum, your auntie, your mate Parkinson; I don’t care whom, just anyone other than me! In fact,” Harry was struck by a sudden thought, a mad one, but yet. He eyed Malfoy. Bloody posh Malfoy, eerily attractive in the moonlight. “You know? This is maybe a wild idea but--” 

Malfoy raked up his eyebrows impatiently. “What, Potter?”

“Hagrid.” 

“You’re joking! He hates me!” 

Malfoy visibly blanched. He regarded Harry warily, both appalled and also unwillingly fascinated, likely by the sheer insanity of exposing Satanic Sophronia to the likes of Hagrid. Or Auntie Andromeda. Or Parkinson, Merlin forbid. 

“See here, Potter, if it’s not that you’re merely yanking my chain because you’re peeved at me for the late hour, then you’re mad as a bloody fucking hatter. I say--are you feeling quite the thing, Potter? You’re a bit wan, now I’m looking at you properly. Like you might chunder. You know I’ve potions on hand--”

“Shut. It.” 

Harry, by sheer strength of obstinacy and compelled by the burning ache in his bum cheeks, gathered his second wind and spoke strongly. Very strongly indeed. 

“I know you’ve potions, Malfoy; that’s the whole point of me being here, isn't it, so you can go off and hawk them around? But that’s it; the perfect solution to your problem: get yourself a bloody expert. Ask Hagrid, why don’t you? Bloody well see if maybe _ Hagrid _ will take pity on you and care for those cantankerous beaked creatures of yours, because I am through!”

Malfoy sniffed. “Seriously, Potter? In place of you, whom my babies all love and trust?” 

“Yes, Hagrid! Why _ not _ Hagrid, you ridiculous blighter? He’s a great big softy, likely spoil them all rotten. Doesn’t he owe you, too, for that potion you gave him for his ailing Thestral mare? But anyone will do--excepting **me**. You cannot pay me enough to come here again and that is my final word on the matter! Do please be quiet, will you? All of you. I need to leave now.” 

Harry determinedly stoppered his ears with his fingertips and concentrated like mad on Grimmauld and the safe, avian-free area of his study. 

He popped off--Merlin, finally!--before Malfoy had the wherewithal to conjure up some other silly excuse to keep him. And before he could stare at Harry some more with those soulfully silver eyes and employ those damnable eyebrows of his as punctuation marks as he blathered on and on about his bloody brilliant potions. The utter prat. 

“Owe him indeed!” Harry grumbled, unsquinching his eyelids thankfully to the familiar dim, dust-mote filled confines of good old Grimmauld Place. “Tosh. Utter tosh. Rubbish.” 

He listed slightly, favouring his one severely pecked arse cheek, then steadied himself, inhaling the comforting smells of his own home. Trusty old Grimmauld, safe and located far, far away from a pen full of Plaguey Pecking Peacocks in Wiltshire. 

“A few potions to people as favours and he dares try to blackmail me--me, Harry Fucking Potter!--into minding those horrid damned feathered maniacs of his for eternity. I think not, thank you very much! Faugh!” 

With a frustrated snarl, he slung his work satchel ruthlessly into a cobwebby corner and limped over to the door, ripping it open with such force it went banging back into the wall, scuffing it. Again. 

“Kreacher! Kreacher, I’m home!” Harry shouted. “Coeee! When’s supper? _ What’s _ supper? Please let it not be mystery meat again; I quite fancy real bangers tonight. Something recognizable, at least. Oh, and would you mind bringing me the First Aid kit from the loo? And some of that brilliant brandy Hagrid gave me he had over from Madame Maxime last Christmas? And make sure the bloody main floo is shut, will you? I wouldn’t put it past _ some people _ to just pop in, doing what _ ever _ they please, _ when _ever they please!” 

Retreating into his safe space, Harry deposited his pain-racked person gingerly upon the ancient leather settee he kept in the corner and impatiently awaited the arrival of his aged house elf bearing pain relief, sustenance and blessed alcohol. If anything his entire bum area hurt worse than ever before--Sophronia had been especially nasty--but there’d been no possible way he would've taken Malfoy up on his perpetual offer of his patented potions. The man was a menace! 

Sure, the salve Harry used was just the basic sort from down the apothecary off Diagon. It did the job, but barely. Now and again Malfoy had talked up his own extra-special, super-effective one, had even offered Harry a sample plus his ‘services’ applying it. But Harry had always been leery. Not, he admitted, for any sound rational reason but more because it was Malfoy. That git always had some ulterior motive. 

And not that Malfoy was a bad egg; he was just...annoyingly persistent and more than a little sneaky about it. Look how he’d dragooned Harry into minding the most dangerous flock of fowl in the British Isles, right? Bloody Slytherins. 

Just consider how the absurd knob always looked so--so fucking fit, Harry thought, even when he was obviously fatigued by a long day of to-and-fro’ing between clients? Clearly he was not to be trusted and certainly not in the vicinity of Harry’s privates. Which were not to be trusted themselves, damn it, at least not in the vicinity of Malfoy. It was quite inconvenient--not to mention unprofessional--to fancy a paying customer as much as Harry fancied Malfoy. Despite his murderous overbred jumped-up chickens! 

“Bloody Malfoy, bloody peacocks, bloody never again!” 

Feeling quite immensely put upon and not finished whingeing over it, Harry jabbed an accusing finger at the haphazardly tottering piles of Potter’s Pets requests spilling all over his neglected desk blotter. Potter’s Pets was--despite the selfish demands of one client--a thriving service and greatly in demand in the Wizarding community.

“I have other clients, damn it! Ones not doing their best to maim me!” 

However, there was in addition, quite simply, a separate towering heap of paperwork devoted solely to that one singular Slytherin berk, which for some reason Harry simply hadn’t gotten ‘round to filing away as ‘completed’. 

The requests were overflowing with extraneous flowery compliments on Harry’s tremendously brilliant pet minding. Plus rather a lot of general folderol and foolery about how Harry was ‘indispensable’ to Malfoy. All of it bloody bosh, of course, nonsense meant to flatter Harry into doing whatever next Malfoy wanted of him, but still--Harry did now and again reread them, particularly after a trying day spent with Sophronia and her Evil Sisters. 

“No. I don’t care what he claims or how much he begs me, I’m not doing it!” Harry sneered at the evidence he was indeed susceptible to complimentary coercion and stuffed away the uncomfortable suspicion he would indeed be stuck minding the Malfoy menagerie yet again. “Hah! Oh fucking Merlin’s bollocks. Cooeee, Kreacher, where are you--oh sorry!”

Harry leapt up when Kreacher appeared at his elbow, sporting his usual dour expression, a medical kit, a covered dish and venerably dust-coated brandy bottle. 

“Oh fuck. Right, there you are, aren’t you? My mistake.” Harry winced apologetically at Kreacher. “I was just--just--” 

“Just so, Master Harry,” Kreacher intoned funereally, and handed over his bounty. A massive snifter of French brandy appeared magically at Harry’s elbow, causing Harry to heave a sigh of relief as he grabbed at it eagerly and settled back onto his cushion. At least there’d be some surcease to his many aches-and-pains, even if it had to be applied internally. 

Neither Grimmauld Place nor Kreacher offered up any reply to Harry’s grumblings but that was alright, too. Harry was content to mutter darkly all through hs supper about Malfoy, Malfoy’s eyebrows, Malfoy’s habit of manipulating Harry and Malfoy’s fucking godawful choice in animal companions all on his own, ta very much. Indeed, after the raucous shrieks of Malfoy’s blasted birds and the uncannily piercing mews and meows of Mr Tumtiddles, the deathly quiet was terribly welcome and soothing. A slip-shod application of the mostly useless salve later, Harry crept off to bed and fell sound asleep. Not even the fleeting scraps of dreams--challenging grey eyes, long slender pale fingers trickling through wafts of white-blond hair, ruthlessly tailored robes and still arrogantly pointy features--even pinged upon his sublime unconsciousness. 

* * *

However. Harry’s hard-won peace was not to persist ere long. The following early morning an elderly but elegant eagle owl arrived upon the study windowsill and tapped politely at the panes. He was outfitted in a natty set of leather-bound flying goggles with smokey lenses.

Harry looked up from his desk, scowling. He’d reams of requests and was having trouble finding the time to fit them all in. His arse felt horrible and Kreacher had given him plain porridge for breakfast and not the kippers Harry had been craving. 

Still, it was not in him to scold the messenger. Particularly when the messenger was one of Harry’s particular darlings. He shrugged, rising to open the window. Likely every pet minder had their own favourites; how could he help that he did also? Noble Gryffindor or no, there were still some animals who were just too, too adorable to be ignored. 

“Hullo there, Parsifal,” Harry greeted the old owl fondly as he deftly removed the Shrunken sack of Galleons from the owl’s ankle. “Hah, it’s my fee! Good old Malfoy, at least he always pays promptly. Here’s your treat; it’s one of those Antique Owl Snacks. I know you like that kind, Parsy. Mind those magpies down the road on your way back to Wiltshire, yeah? Very feisty, that lot. Chase you ‘round the park in a heartbeat, they will, and just for the sport of it.”

“Whoo-ooh.” Parsifal--or Parsy, as he and Malfoy tended to call the lovely old creature--nipped at Harry’s fingers in a loving fashion and proceeded to gulp down his desiccated mouse bit. “Hoo-hoo. Woo. Wooh?” 

“Right, right, I know.” Harry nodded agreement. “Youth will be youth. Still, they could be a bit more civil.” 

He reseated himself at his desk, unrolling the note Malfoy had sent along with his payment. It UnShrunk itself immediately, laying itself neatly upon his blotter. Which he’d summarily cleared off just that morning, mainly by dint of heaving all Malfoy’s old correspondence into a box and shoving it all over behind his filing cabinet, right out of sight. 

“Now what’s your master’s trouble today, Parsy? Always some damned urgent emergency with him, isn’t it. Never home enough these days to care for you lot; no wonder Sophie is such a bi--oh? A letter, too?” 

_ Motions In Potions _ read the elegant header of the length of fine stationery come tucked within the sack with Harry’s customary recompense for his pet minding. 

A charmingly stylized little silver-inked bubbling cauldron was being stirred by a wee little golden wand in the logo block; it made for an attractive and expressive marketing image for one very much up-and-coming entrepreneurial potioneer. Below that was emblazoned in flowing script the name of the proud proprietor, one Draco A. L. H. S. Malfoy. Weirdly, Harry happened to know what all the initials stood for but that wasn't a thing he believed to be at all unusual. Lots of people knew other people’s full names, right? The Ministry, for example. Professor McGonigall. Hermione, naturally. And the Welcome Witch at St Mungos, who never failed to greet Harry with anything less than his own full name, and very loudly. 

Frighteningly, a completed Potter’s Pets Sitter Priority Appointment Request form was tucked beneath Malfoy’s missive. 

Harry frowned at the familiar copperplate, scanning intently for highlights. Naturally, the word ‘peacock’ leapt out at him, triggering an anticipatory wince and a quick consolatory pat on one still quite tender bum cheek. He’d the sneaking suspicion that one deep gouge was infected. Too, he’d the sneaking sensation Malfoy was not about to simply and gracefully accept his congé and slink back off into the happily amorphous area of ‘ye old acquaintance from Hogwarts School days’, whence he’d emerged. 

No, never. Not him. Not since the whole Saving-Ron’s-Life Incident followed closely by the ‘Oh, So You Pet Sit? How Fortuitous!’ conversation. The same conversation that had left Harry with his most loyal and best paying customer but also with an unending ache in the arse. Literally. 

Bloody Malfoy (and his bloody super-special Imported Pecking Peacocks) was hands down the single most difficult client Harry had ever had in his relatively short career as pet sitter. A job he adored, actually, and which suited him ever so much better than the various other careers he’d turned his hand at after being booted from Aurors for gross insubordination. Many friendly apologies from Minister Shacklebolt, of course, but still--he’d been booted and they weren’t having him back, either. 

“Harry,” Hermione had told him, after he been unsuccessful and unhappy at wandmaking, curse-breaking, baking and broom design, “you need not save the world repeatedly, you know? Why don’t you do something that’s peaceful? Not stressful--not even particularly dangerous, maybe?” 

Harry had taken these words to heart and promptly consulted with Luna, who was the least stressed person he knew. And she had instantly advised he engage in pet minding and promptly set Harry up with an afternoon’s appointment caring for the frankly adorable pack of Puffskeins owned by one Nocturnia Dreezle. Mrs Dreezle had then referred him to the darling Crups of a Mr Singh and Mr Singh had kindly spread the word to all his friends and family. Hagrid, meanwhile, had talked up Harry’s services to everyone he knew and even some he didn’t and, soon enough, Harry’s calendar was overflowing with an ever changing panoply of pets to mind. 

He loved it, every moment. Until Malfoy came along one day and ruined it all with his stupid peacocks. 

_Dear Potter, _

was scrawled under the cheery little cauldron: 

_ I know this is a major favour to ask after your previous unpleasant experience with my Sophie, but I beg of you, please give us all yet another chance? It is, and I swear this upon Salazar’s Grave, an emergency of highest priority. Only you may help me in saving the needy orphans, Potter! Only you. _

_ I’ve a very lucrative contractual agreement pending, but if only I am able to Portkey to Tokyo at the crack of dawn two days hence to put quill to parchment. These are potentially lifesaving potions, Potter, meant to be distributed all across the East at little or no cost and by a highly reputable charity! I can hardly turn down such a good deed, now can I? Of course not. It’s unthinkable. _

_ Alas, both Professor Hagrid and my mother are entirely unavailable and I find I cannot bring myself to leave my poor dear Flock unattended, and particularly little Miss Sophie, as she is the most delicate of all my Girls. I am sure you understand my agony, Potter. I’m well aware of how much you love and cosset your various charges. _

_ Indeed, Parsifal and Mister Tumtiddles would also suffer greatly without your loving touch and kind attentions. They both simply adore you. As I have mentioned repeatedly. _

_ As for me, I am so desperate to partake of your exemplary services in the pet minding area I will most happily pay you double--nay, triple!--the Galleons for your time and trouble with not even the merest quibble. I am in dire straits here, Potter, and you do, in fact, owe me. You said so yourself, remember? _

_ Oh, and have I mentioned to you recently the spanking new Strongly Intense Securing Charm I’ve had installed upon the Girls’ pen? It’s the very latest version available and I purchased it specially with you in mind, dear Potter, with a Mr Fred Weasely’s personal assurance that “this one, at least, would do the trick or my name isn’t Weasley”. How could I not believe him, I ask you? His name _ is _ ‘Weasley’. He seems so sincere this time around and Merlin knows I value your precious skin now more than ever, these days! Naturally I procured it immediately. Anything to keep you in fine fettle, Potter; that is my goal. _

_ Bearing all this in mind, please do confirm your acceptance of this Urgent Priority Appointment at your earliest convenience; my Eagle Owl Parsifal eagerly awaits your response. And will continue to wait patiently until you do so, mind. You know how Parsy is, Potter. Very devoted to his position despite his advancing years. Admirable attitude, I think. _

_ I know you are passing fond of my poor old Parsy, Potter, likely love him near as much as I do; the Octogenarian’s Antique Owl Treats supply always need to be completely replenished whenever you stay the weekend at Malfoy Manor. Do take pity on him and me both and not keep us waiting too long for your response in the affirmative? He does tend toward a touch of the palsy these days; most inconvenient for a flying creature, sadly. I fear to let him deliver post in anything other than full daylight for his own safety. Please do take a moment to adjust his day-vision goggles if they’ve come askew. He’s reliant on corrective specs, just as you are. I am sure you understand what I am saying here. _

_ Sincerely, and with double--nay, triple!--the Galleons waiting at the ready, I remain your most loyal and best-paying client, _

_ Draco Malfoy _

_ Proprietor, Motions In Potions, Ltd._

“Bother!” Harry sat back in his chair with a huff, shoving the parchments away and glancing to his study window. “Does he never, ever listen? Not even twelve hours gone by and already another one, the prat.” 

“Who?” Parsifal flapped softly where he was perched upon the sill and regarded Harry with the intentness that only a highly trained and dedicated owl could muster. When he saw Harry was looking over at him he hooted inquiringly. “Who-haah?”

“Your bloody master, of course.” Harry cocked his chin at the owl, who promptly mimicked him, going off in a babble of hooting, clucks, chirps and other owl lingo. “He’s twisting my arm again.” 

“Hoo-hoo? Hoooeee--oo--oo. Hoo-hoo! Heeeeow?”

“No! Not literally. I meant...I meant, he’s begging me to help him out again and thi time he’s brought you and Tum into it, the bugger. It’s so unfair.”

“Hoo. Haw?”

“Of course I don’t hate him. Whyever would I hate him?” 

Harry stared his visitor down, with the gravity only a Savior of the World and Champion Pet Minder with a bloody Pecking Peacock bruised bum could muster. 

“But seriously, not again so _soon_, Parsy. It’s too much. I daren’t show; that freaky monster bird of his will be the death of me. No, you fly on home, darling.” Harry made abortive little shooing motions at the owl, who steadfastly ignored them. “If it was just you and that randy namby-pamby floof-ball Nundu-Kneazle of Malfoy’s, I could maybe just manage, but that horrible, terrible Sophie!”

“Whoo. Oooh.” 

“Why? Why, you ask me? She’s a danger to society, is what!” Harry ranted, setting the pile of Malfoy’s golden Galleons spinning ‘round his blotter in a fit of accidental magic. “No one in their right mind should ever have chosen a bloody Pecking Peacock as a companion, much less acquired a pack of them--and I’ve more than half a mind to just tell your master that in a strongly worded letter!” 

“Hoo-ooh?” Parsifal seemed vastly sympathetic, or so Harry fancied, but he also made absolutely no move to fly off, either. Instead his wickedly sharp talons dug in just that much deeper into the wood of the windowsill, likely damaging the paint most dreadfully. “Hoo!”

“What?” demanded Harry, feeling aggrieved. “You want blood from a stone now? Believe me, I’ve bled plenty over that barmy bird, I promise you!” 

“Wheeeooooeeewww? Hoo.” 

The owl affixed Harry with a stern, chiding and yet somehow imploring look, the likes of which Harry had seldom seen on an avian visage. Certainly never upon the features of Sophronia, Malfoy’s vicious pride and joy. No, Parsy was as much of a great softy as Hedwig had been. All fine feathered elegance disguising a marshmallow interior. Sophie, on the contrary, was more of the Walburga Black type: nasty, venomous, petty, strident, and generally hissing and snappish. Probably had been an assassin in a previous life.

“Wheee--ou,” Parsy informed Harry gravely and with unswerving purpose. “Whee. Hoo.” He snapped his beak and extended a foot, click-clacking his talons. “Ooo-woo. Hoo-ooh-ooh!”

“Oh no, really, Parsy? You must be joking me,” Harry protested, doing his best to remain unaffected by the rheumy gaze of one of his secretly most favourite charges in all the world. 

Parsy, he knew, had been Hedwig’s best friend, back at Hogwarts Owlery; a fact Harry had made certain to never, ever mention to that Slytherin Malfoy, not even in passing. 

“She does not fancy me in particular! She’d never, you know. Despises me completely, that bastarding brat. Hatred isn’t a strong enough word for it.”

“Hoo!”

Parsy reminded Harry strangely of Hedwig in other ways as well, perhaps because he was so very devoted to Malfoy, just as Hedwig had been to Harry. As in, never giving up and going away, no matter what tactics Harry might employ. 

“Hoooooooo. Ooh?”

“You don’t say--pulling pigtails, is it? Are you wheedling me now, you silly old heap of feathers?” Harry laughed ruefully. “Same flattering tongue as your master, then--birds of a feather, you two. But see here, there’s no way I’m taking your word for it she’s changed her ways, old man. Sophronia has hated me from the instant we met and you and I both know it. She only tolerates me because I feed her and help her preen that enormous tail of hers. The only one she maybe really cares for is Malfoy.”

“Hoo-oh.” 

“Mmm, yes, and that’s a very large ‘maybe’,” Harry hummed doubtfully, thinking back to a few occasions when Malfoy too had seemed to be walking funny and favouring his posterior. A limp Harry recognized from experience. Although it could also be Malfoy was getting some. An unwelcome speculation, to be sure. Harry scowled. 

“Hoo?” Parsy seemed surprised at the suggestion of Sophy’s tempermental favours. But then again, Harry knew, owls generally did seem surprised. He nodded. 

“LIkely.” 

“...Hoo-eo-oe.”

Harry shrugged, giving in to the need to discreetly charm his chair cushion to a higher degree of comfort. It crossed his mind fleetingly that Malfoy might be doing the same, this fine morning. Sophie had been positively foul to Harry the day previous; there was no reason to believe her mood had improved. Her mood, in fact, had been positively poisonous the last few times Harry had minded her. 

“Hmm, I wonder if she pecks his arse as much as she does mine, Parsy?” Harry wondered aloud. “Wouldn’t surprise me, you know. And he would absolutely hide it from me if she was giving him trouble. His middle name might as well be ‘Devious’ instead of all that other lot of dead ancestors. But what do you really think, Parsy? You know, from one bird to another? Is she as evil to him as she is to me? Or am I just looking for excuses to refuse?” 

“Whoooooeee--ow? Hoo! Hoo! Hoo-_ hoo _.”

“Well. I shouldn’t just send him a flat refusal. Not really polite, is it? Need an excuse, don’t I?” 

Harry had learnt from experience that Parsifal, just like Malfoy, was not a being who simply accepted ‘No’ for an answer. He was also an owl who took his job very seriously and was not above using Slytherin tactics when necessary. This latest deluge of owl noises amounted to a quite thorough scolding. 

Harry sat back in a huff, trying his best not to listen and rifling through the other urgent appointment requests he’d received prior Malfoy’s paperwork. He stilled the spinning Galleons and scooped them back into the pouch. He checked his calendar and noticed that, yes, sadly, there was an opening available for Malfoy. Then he took a sip of his cooling tea and allowed Parsy to finish his rambling diatribe in Owlish. 

“Fine, you win,” Harry sighed heavily at the end of it. “I am _ not _ abandoning your master in his hour of need, Parsy. Nor you, nor Mr T. Don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty, you sneaky birdbrain. Not just hatched out the egg, no.” 

Harry gave Parsy an exceeding stern look, just exactly the same as he would’ve directed toward actual Malfoy, were he to land upon Harry’s windowsill and demand Harry believe Sophronia was a changed peahen, a peahen with soft, sappy feelings, a peahen who sincerely regretted her past perniciously pecking actions and was sorry for all the injuries she’d inflicted. 

“Bosh, I still say. She’s not reformed in the slightest. I only wish I knew someone to really recommend him. Decent pet minders are thin on the ground, you know.” 

“Wheeeee. Who-who-hoo-hoo-whoo!” 

“No, I am not the ‘one and only one for Sophie’, ta very much, or for your bloody Master either, and I resent your attempts to manipulate me. Even if they're working. Especially if!” 

Harry shook his head at the owl’s follow-up of long, slow, affectionate blinks, and flapped his hands helplessly at the barrage of coaxing chirps that followed when Parsy abandoned the sill to come perch upon his shoulder and preen his uncombable hair like there was no tomorrow. Parsifal was relentlessly affectionate, his soft hoots sweetly insistent, and it all combined to pluck at the strings of Harry’s Gryffindor heart with great acuity. 

“Oh, fine, very well. Calm yourself and smooth those feathers down; I didn’t say I _ wouldn’t _ do it, did I? No, only that I didn’t want to--and yes, you winsome mouse-mangler, I will come and help out your idiot master just the one last time.”

“Hoo-haaah!”

“Until he finds a real replacement, mind you, which he’d best be tending to very much more seriously than he has been. Hagrid indeed!” Harry scoffed. “As if _ he _ doesn’t have his hands full enough already with those Thestrals. “

“Hoo, ooah.”

“Well, Potter’s Pets strives to never disappoint our valued clients, no matter how much those notoriously gittish sods may deserve it, and you may put that down your craw and stuff it, Parsy. Right along with this last treat--oi, catch! But no more. You have to fly, you know. Can’t be overfull.”

“Hooo-weee--oooh!”

With a flurry of happy Owlish, Harry’s hastily scribbled note to Malfoy of ‘Yes, alright, fine, just never, ever again, you importuning wanker’ or rather more polite words to the same effect, tied round his leg, plus two bulging claw-fulls of bonus treats, Harry’s favourite Owl--other than Hedwig, of course--triumphantly took flight for Wiltshire. 

“Mind those Muggle pigeons roosting to your left, Parsy!” Harry called after him, concerned enough to lean out the window and shout. “No! _ Your _ left, Parsy. I say--that’s it! Up, up, up and away, above the tree tops now--oops! No, up and higher! Higher still! Oh, good show, banking like that, on the thermal. There you go, safe travels.” 

His morning’s excitement abated, Harry sat and assiduously updated his calendar, making a mental note to procure himself a new supply of Snood’s Patented Posterior Potion the moment he had an opportunity. And owl treats--always with the owl treats. A visit to Eeylops was noted down, just before his scheduled luncheon with Mr Singh and Mr Singh’s mother’s uncle’s assortment of venomous serpents. 

He was looking forward to that, rather. Strange how it was Malfoy hadn’t a single serpent to his name, what? Unusual for a Wizard inordinately proud of his old Hogwarts House. Snakes and reptiles made for quite lovely pets, too, and they certainly didn’t come equipped with dreadfully sharp bird beaks, did they? 

Abandoning his extraneous musings, Harry hied himself off to mind Parkinson’s Pekes for the afternoon, who were spoilt rotten but still remarkably decent about it. Certainly they never had the poor taste to bite Harry on the arse! Couldn’t reach the level of his arse but still. It was the thought that counted and they would never. 

The day passed peacefully and then the next, interspersed with the sounds of happy snuffles, yips, meows, screeches, caws, chuckling, purring, hissing, barking, howling and bubbling. Harry, caught up in the fun of minding and making much of all his many charges, nearly managed to forget about the looming Malfoy appointment. Well, excepting that his arse bite from Insufferable Sophie was indeed infected and there went one night’s sound sleep down the proverbial. 

* * *

At half before the hour of official ‘crack o’ dawn’, two days following Parsifal’s visit and three days since he’d spoken to Malfoy in person, Harry Apparated on down to the Manor and trudged up the long white-gravelled drive. 

It was damp and promising to rain later, so he was wrapped well in his wet-proof robes and hefted a bulging satchel full of peacock-oriented amusement devices and snacks. Eeylops had proved amply stocked, indeed. Plus a few nibbles for Mr Tumtiddles and Parsifal, naturally. A happy, well-fed, quite drowsy half-Nundu Kneazle kitten was a thing to be greatly desired when pet-minding on rainy days and Harry was no fool when it came to the business of minding animals who outweighed him by several stone. Mr Singh’s father’s cousin’s brother’s son’s Hippogryph-giraffe mix Smiley had never proved a problem, certainly, and he’d quite the neck on him, really. All bendy and quite heavy when wrapped about one’s shoulders. Always had Harry stooping and fearing for his posture. 

“Oi, Malfoy!” he called out, arriving and knocking up the imposing door loudly. It was atrociously early, yes, but Malfoy was also a snarky creature when he believed the rules of punctuality had been toyed with. “I’m here, you wank--Er. I meant, let me in, will you? It’s begun drizzling and I’ve come to mind the menagerie for you. Rouse yourself, if you’re not already.” 

With a crash the wooden panel flew open, revealing a flustered young man in midst of spelling a travelling trunk chock-full of clinking-clanking cut-crystal bottles, all being reduced to a convenient pocket-sized cache-all by quick little flurries of expert wand-waving. Malfoy beckoned Harry in with his free hand.

He was scowling, Harry noted. Which did nothing to detract from his overall air of being highly shaggable. 

“Potter! Oh bloody--oh, thank fucking Merlin. Come in, then! No dawdling in the doorway, and mind my case!” 

“Oi, impressive,” Harry remarked, coming through and just managing not to kick the trunk as he edged round it. It finished its Shrink with a sharp reverse ‘ploop!’ sound and a clearly fussed Malfoy promptly bent down to scoop it up. Straightening up to his full and impressive height, he slid the tiny trunklet into the pocket of a very nice fitted pair of dark trousers and treated Harry to a hairy eyeball. 

“Nice spellwork there.” Harry smiled grimly, determined to be pleasant, despite bloody all. Also, Malfoy looked very...handsome, all professional and debonair, but with his hair escaping its product and spilling down over one narrowed grey eye. Bit racy. Fetching, even. “Nice, er, robes, too. You're wearing today. Very, um. Fitting.” 

“Potter, you’re late!” The man snorted, though his cheeks tinged pink at the compliment. He settled his wand up his sleeve-holster fussily, avoiding Harry's wide-eyed stare. “I’m going to miss my bloody portkey because of you, you know that? Didn’t my Priority Appointment Request state the time? In overly large print? Boldly?” 

“Bollocks,” Harry snapped, instantly up in arms and dismissing all his thoughts about how Malfoy looked edible in his ‘off to impress client’ robes. “I’m early, if anything. Too early, if you ask me. Besides, looks like you’ve left everything to the last minute, as usual. So.”

He humped an unconcerned shoulder at Malfoy’s dark glower. Malfoy sniffed loudly and began twirling himself into a great billowing travelling cloak, one with enough capelets to satisfy even the most foppish Regency whipster. 

“I don’t know what you’re whinging about, really,” Harry continued sedately, proceeding to shed his own much more practical outerwear. “You’ve plenty of time yet to floo to the Ministry for your connexion and don’t even begin this morning by winding me up, I beg of you. Thinking about minding your atrocious Sophie all day whilst you’re faffing about Tokyo wining-and-dining is quite sufficient to wind me up enough already. Speaking of, how is your dear pride and joy? Unconscious at this hour, I hope.” 

“No, no--she’s awake,” Malfoy returned absently, doing up his brooch. It was in the shape of a peacock, all white gold, with glittering emeralds and sapphires. But tasteful, naturally. He frowned, but not at Harry. More of a blinking and staring off in the distance sort of frown. “Last I saw, leastways. Tempus! Oh, it’s just on six, after all; I see it now. Sorry, Potter.” Malfoy essayed Harry a glancing smile. “I’m a bit short-tempered this morning. I was up most of the night, brewing the last of the samples.” He dipped his regal head in apology. “There’s adjustments to be made for small batch sizes, you see. And I had to ensure all was perfect.” 

“Yeah?”

“Well, yes. I’m nervous, understandably.” 

“Oh?”

Malfoy shifted from foot to foot, brushing his unruly fringe back again, and fixed Harry with an intense grey stare. 

“This is a very large contract, you see? The Wizarding Ambassador’s attaché has even been to chat with me here about it, over tea. He’s the Shadow Emperor’s personal secretary or some such; extremely high level, very hush-hush, all of it. I’m not supposed to know anything about anything, oddly, but also somehow still manage all the proper protocol at this upcoming meeting. Really, it’s all terribly tedious, but necessary. The unnamed-but-very-well-endowed charity head is anxious to distribute. There are kappas dying right and left, apparently. And other creatures, sadly. And those who are concerned about their conservation are nigh on destitute and desperately require the charity’s generous donation of my potions. But the Shadow Emperor wants the problem to be swept under the carpet, as it rather makes them all look bad. The toffs, I mean. Just like the Wizengamot with those kelpies in Loch Ness. Seems to be a bit of a common theme, that, destroying creature’s habitats, killing them off willy-nilly and then complaining of it happening. Don’t you agree?” 

“Uh. Yes?” 

Harry cocked a curious eyebrow but really only listened with half an ear, peering about him suspiciously. He had a job to do too, and it had begun the moment Malfoy had sent him the Priority Pet Appointment Paper. 

“It’s preposterous. Criminal, even. But protocol, right?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows sky-high and sniffed again. “Must show willing, Potter.” 

“Mmm. Lovely that, yeah. Protocol, is it. Do tell.” 

For, somewhere in the nearby vicinity, Harry knew for dead certain, there was lurking a whomping great moggy and an elderly, anxious owl friend. Best for Harry to be super-vigilant. As it was dampish and likely to pour later, Malfoy had very wisely kept the two of them indoors overnight. Which meant they were already bored off their respective nuts and desperately seeking amusement. 

“Well, never mind that now. However, needless to say, dear, dear Potter.” 

Waving off his momentary foul mood, Malfoy switched from tombstone gravity to gushing like a silly Fan Club member in an instant, swooping down upon an unwary Harry and clapping him familiarly across the shoulder. 

“You’re my hero,” he stated earnestly, staring deep into Harry’s widened eyes. “You’re truly saving my life, or at the least brightening the whole of my existence, consenting to mind my darlings so soon again.”

“Oh?” Harry spared him a doubtful look. “Is that so?” 

Yes, the bloke was generally always reasonably grateful for Harry’s services but never quite so effusive. Usually he popped off without wasting much time on pleasantries. 

“You did have enough decent sleep, right?” Harry felt compelled to ask him. “Wouldn’t want you to splinch or anything along the way, that’s all. You seem strangely...amiable. For you, I mean. This early in the day. You’re not exactly a morning person, Malfoy.” 

“Oh, no!” Malfoy laughed shortly and backed off. “No fear of me splinching; I’ve already taken my own patented PepperUp this morning. Besides, I’m always ‘amiable’, Potter. With some people, at least. Even early in the day, if it calls for it.”

He waggled his eyebrows at Harry. There was a weighted atmosphere of implication and innuendo, suddenly. Harry nodded guardedly and instinctively ducked away, his straining attention sharply divided between the ominous rustling noises up the landing and Malfoy’s being weirdly sociable. 

“Good-oh, then,” Harry said, for want of anything else to say. He jerked his chin, indicating the shadowy staircase. “Well...I should, um. And then you should also probably be--” 

Was that a muffled purr he heard? A soft hoot? 

“Right, yes, in a moment. As I was saying?” Malfoy carried on with his odd natterings nonetheless. “My professional life, I meant, by ‘you saving it’. Er, this time ‘round.” 

He laughed shortly, a sharp uncomfortable sound that caused Harry to cease staring intently up the grand stairwell and truly pay full heed. 

“Seriously,” Malfoy insisted. “I don’t believe I could concentrate on these final sensitive negotiations at all well if I were constantly concerned about my Girls, Potter. Or my owl or my Kneazle, for that matter. I am honestly incredibly grateful. To you.”

Harry bobbed his head cautiously. 

“However?” Malfoy inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring, and spread his arms wide in an expansively dramatic pose. 

It instantly caused Harry to think of Lockhart and he was forced to bite back an inappropriate grin. “Er, yes?” 

“However, if I am able to secure this contract--which surely I shall, now you’ve come to mind my lovely Girls and the Terrible Twins up the stairs--I shall be sitting very pretty indeed. All of us will, really. You especially.” 

He waggled his eyebrows again at Harry, a thing he did now and again, which Harry always found weirdly attractive. When it wasn’t driving him barmy, that was. Because Malfoy was a tease. A bit of a prat, too, sometimes. 

Harry chose not to rise to the bait and merely arched his own eyebrows. 

“No, no; all will be jammy as fuck.” Malfoy stated with great self-assurance, giving off the impression he rather wanted to take a little bow. “Shan’t have to ever fret again over establishing my company if I can just be there today to sign this life-altering contract. Nor fret over paying your exorbitant fee, Potter. Shall be positively swimming in the Galleons, I assure you.” 

Harry smiled bemusedly at his wealthiest client. Who--despite complaining of missing his international portkey--contrarily seemed to be in no rush at all to go off and secure this great and triumphant business deal of which he was so proud. 

“Oh, super; good on you, then. Hmm.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Huh. So you’ll be even richer after today?” Harry was struck by a happy notion and smiled widely at Malfoy. Perhaps with a few more teeth than usual, as the Snood’s Patented Pain Potion was already beginning to wear off. “Well, it seems to me you’ll be more at leisure then, right? Able to hire some staff finally. You shan’t be needing pet minding services quite so often. You’ll be able to be home with your pets more often. Stands to reason, right?” 

A mild swell of hope buoyed up Harry’s spirits. He blithely ignored the stricken expression which quite transformed Malfoy’s smug self-satisfaction to shock-and-horror mixed and forged on ahead. 

“Because I would be agreeable to that, you know. More than, Malfoy. I’ve plenty of clients. There’s a waiting list now. Hagrid and Mr Singh’s relatives; they keep me quite occupied. And you really ought spend more quality time with your Sophronia, Malfoy,” he tacked on, feeling not exactly malicious but also certainly not above chivying any random pet owner too often absent to spend additional quality time with their chosen finned, furred, feathery or scaled friends. “Merlin knows she craves the attention--she’s very needy, that one. Hermione and I have developed a few theories---”

“Oh, theories! Pish-tosh! As to that.” Malfoy, visibly collecting himself, scoffed gently and came closer again, bending his head down so his lips were right by Harry’s ear. “Don’t tell anyone I told you so, Potter, but I rather think Sophie’s broody. Which would indeed be a marvel, don’t you agree?”

“Broody?” Harry startled. He rolled his eyes at Malfoy disbelievingly. “As in, with viable eggs inside her? Hardly! How could she be? You’ve only peahens. No cocks here. Plus she’s not exactly your spritely spring cockatrice.” 

“She’s a Pecking Peacock, Potter,” Malfoy said haughtily. “Not a common Muggle chicken. I’ve had her bred specially already but it does take several years to gestation. Related to the phoenixes, you know. Very elite form of procreation, Pecking Peacocks have. And of course there are cocks.” He did the thing with his eyebrows again, glancing down meaningfully at his extremely well-tailored trousers. “I’ve one right here, you idiot. In fine fettle, may I add.” 

“Fuck!” Harry exclaimed, looked askance at Malfoy, and did his best to keep his gaze level and well above the belt line. Visions of the fiery demise of Dumbledore’s phoenix assaulted him; right along with a jarringly hot mini-fantasy of a Malfoy sans bespoke trousers, the latter cancelled nearly instantly. 

“What?” Malfoy asked Harry, blinking. “Did I say something, Potter?” 

“Bugger yours; don’t be an arse,” Harry glared. “What I meant is, you’re just now casually telling me Sophie might bloody well explode upon my head at any given moment? Burst into flame? Go ‘poof’?”

He threw up his hands, as if to fend off Malfoy. Who’d started grinning like a right loon at the mere mention of cocks and was a right wanker besides, what with not saying a word about his abominable incendiary bird! 

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m not being paid nearly enough for that, Malfoy!” 

“Oh, no, no, no, poor scared Potty,” Malfoy echoed him, chuckling and wagging a damned finger at Harry right along with his stupid eyebrows. He reached over and patted Harry on the shoulder again, hovering very much nearer to Harry’s general proximity than any of Harry’s other human clients generally ever came, and smiled down at him as if Harry were an amusing but sadly daft child. “No need to be frightened. Pecking Penhens never explode. Nor are they incendiary in the slightest. They do, however, tend to roost quite high up when they’re broody, so you may want to employ a brolly when you go out to tend the Girls. Sophronia has taken a liking to the one Regular Tree, out by their pen. The four hundred foot tall one. She likes to dive out of it. Quite playful, really.” 

“Playful, you say?” Harry goggled at him. 

“Oh, yes.” Malfoy seemed dreadfully amused by the thought of his swan-diving peafowl. His grinned jauntily at Harry as he turned away. “Just keep a weather eye out, is all, when you enter the enclosure. You’ll be alright, I’m sure. There’s a brolly in the hall cupboard that’s kept just for that purpose; help yourself, do. It’s a Special Impermeable. Got it from Weasley.”

“Er. Malfoy?” 

“Yes? I really must go, Potter.” 

Malfoy swung back ‘round, a ghost of worried frown on his face. He’d moved off toward the Floo and had stopped laughing up his sleeve at Harry in order to actually be about his business. He was picture perfect, standing there with his fistful of floo powder trickling through his patrician fingers: the very picture of the wealthy, handsome, worldly, portkey-hopping young entrepreneurs gracing the covers of the Wizarding business glossies lately. The very opposite of Harry, actually, who favoured nail, claw and tooth resistant clothing in very washable colours.

“Which Weasley was that?” Harry asked suspiciously. “Bill, George or Charlie?” 

“Wiliam, of course.” Malfoy grimaced at Harry. “I’m not just hatched either, you know. Now, did you need anything further before I go?” 

He seemed genuinely concerned for Harry’s sake; Harry frowned at him, a bit puzzled by it.

“Er, why would I?” Harry patted his satchel and firmed his lips. “I am a professional pet minder, you know. Come prepared for all catastrophes and all that. Peacock-tastrophes, rather.” 

“Well, still.” Malfoy’s hesitance was oddly touching. “Anything at all, of course, since it’s you, Potter. A souvenir, perhaps? They do lovely ones, I hear, in Tokyo’s Wizarding District. There’s all sorts of teas to be had--I know you like those green ones, the sencha. Tastes like mown grass but alright. There’s likely some quite acceptable porcelain statuary to be had, as well. You’ve that collection of little dragon figurines, don’t you? Perhaps another one for your office. I don’t mind.” 

“Stop!” Harry flapped his hands. “Ta and all, but. That’s not it. There is something, now you’re asking, though...”

“No?...Yes?” 

“No--and erm, yes, actually.” Harry cleared his throat. “Both.” 

He really hated to do this but a broody Sophronia was likely a putridly painful Pecking Peahen and Harry had been forced to visit St Mungos A&E yet again. Stupidly useless over-the-apothecary-counter potions! But, more than that, stupidly dangerous, possibly preggers peafowl!

“Um. Listen. Malfoy, you are in fact aware this is the absolute last time I am doing this for you, right? This pet minding thing. Just to be very, very crystal clear on that matter.” 

Harry watched his most faithful client’s paling-to-waxen face, listened to his shocked inhalation, and bloody refused to feel a mite of sympathy. 

In fact, the last of his store of sympathy had gone up in a puff of proverbial smoke when Malfoy’s stupid bloody bird had taken a beak-sized chunk out of his left buttock, honestly. And caused Harry a late-night visitation to the loud-mouthed Welcome Witch and a highly irascible Healer. The magical stitches still chafed him. He couldn’t quite reach it to bandage it properly. It bloody well _ hurt _. All in all, it was a tremendous bother. The last straw, as it were, that had quite shattered his poor abused arse. 

“I mean.” 

Alright, maybe Harry did feel a wee bit of sympathy. Malfoy looked so very crestfallen. 

“It’s not as though. I _ am _ looking for my replacement, really I am! But this--this is just a courtesy, me coming today, and only because you saved Ron’s life that one time. And maybe also Hagrid’s poor Thestral, but that’s--” 

“But--but Potter!” Malfoy swayed in place, dropping his floo powder as if it were a handful of hot cauldron. “What--_why_?”

“No, really. You _ know _why.” Harry set his jaw, projecting much severity. “This situation must cease-and-desist, Malfoy.” 

“But--no--you _ promised_, Potter!” 

Harry shrugged an unhappy shoulder at Malfoy and maybe did feel a little bit more sorry for him than before. But only because the bloke looked so forlorn. Rather like his silly old owl did, when Harry ran out of his favourite treats. Or like Mr Tumtiddles, denied belly rubbings. Or stupid Sophie, when Harry closed the cage door behind him at the end of the day.

“No. I said I would do all I could for you, Malfoy. But, fact is, I can’t manage that bird of yours, sorry, even though I’ve tried everything I know. And everything Hermione knows, as well. And Luna--_ and _ the Witch at the Eeylops Owl Emporium branch office in Hyderabad. Sophronia’s incorrigible, Malfoy. If she’s broody, as you say, it’s only a matter of time before she outright murders me. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

“No!” 

“But yes!” Harry insisted, stepping forward. “She is, and the Girls follow her horrid example. Look here, I shan’t hold you up any longer. Now’s not really the time for this. You’ve your meeting and the Shadow Emperor and what all. Dying kappas to save! I know you need to catch your portkey but I did want to inform you in person, at least. Potter’s Pets hates to not have happy clients at the end of the day, so I will do my best to find you a proper minder for Sophie, I promise, as soon as I may. But I doubt it will be easy. Or actually all that soon, for that matter.” 

“Bloody--no--damn it all, Tempus!”

Malfoy, gone from pale to red-cheeked in a flash and rather alarmingly wild-eyed, waved his wand tip in a fluster and gasped at the time when it appeared floating above their heads. He grabbed wildly at another handful of floo powder, scattering excess everywhere in his haste. 

“Merlin fuck, I’m so--I have to go, Potter! But this isn’t over, not by a long Snitch! Trust me on that!”

He bolted for the hearth, leaving a tiny cloud of stray Floo dust in his wake and one searingly reproachful glance over his shoulder, one that seemed to linger in the entryway for a terribly long moment and take on a life of its own. 

“Oh, I do. Trust you on that. Bloody Malfoy, looking all shocked and upset,” Harry muttered grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing his abrupt headache to recede quickly. “No. You’ll come home and rip up at me and then try to make me feel guilty. I don’t need this, really I don’t.” 

After a moment and a measured series of calming breaths, he vowed to waste no further time on the contemplation of his implied betrayal of Malfoy and Malfoy’s murderous pets; he’d a job to do and he’d damned well do it, too. For the very last time. 

He spun about as soundlessly as possible, as he had the rather distinct impression there was something watching him intently. Two _ somebodies _, actually, and stalking him, rather, just waiting to pounce at the slightest provocation. Someone furry and quite, quite muscular and unfortunately still mostly an overgrown kitten. And someone with lovely black-and-tan feathers and the most ridiculous pair of miniaturized silver-framed spectacles perched upon his sharp beak. 

“Alright, Mr Tumtiddles, come out, come out, wherever you are!” Harry called out, turning away from the dissipating hearth flames and striding over to the bottom of the stairwell. There was--oh, yes!--a quiver of a long whisker poking out from behind the one newel post a landing up. “Right then, Mr Rummy Tum Tiddles, I’ve brought you a present, you great purry furball. You too, Parsy. I see you perching up there, back by the tapestry. Think you’re sly, do you? You’re eyeing my bag up, the two of you. Come on, then, come on down to Harry, loves. I’ve treats for you--and new toys!” 

“Meeaaroww!”

“Hoo-ooh-wheeee!” 

“There you are, then,’ Harry giggled, going down on the carpet in a flurry of floofy tails and flying feathers. “I’ve missed you, I have. Good lads! Come on, let’s have us a little fun before I have to go out and deal with that horrible hen, shall we?”

* * *

“Potter! Potter, are you still here? Potter, where are you? Answer me! POTTER!” 

It was nearly full on dark. The moon was rising, though, and Malfoy’s fanciful fairy lights illuminated the extensive gardens, casting a romantic glow upon the surrounds and well-kempt greenery.

“Potter! Potter, what’s happened to you? **POTTER**.” 

Harry, wincing and limping and bearing a very much dented in brolly, came around the outside wall of the Girl’s pen and scowled at his client. Who had the gall to be standing there, all tall and sleek and glinting silvery and platinum at him. If he’d the energy left, Harry would’ve have hauled off and hexed him, just for that. But he didn’t, unfortunately; it had been a very rough day down the trenches. He could, however, manage a beastly scalding telling-off.

“P-Potter? Potter, are you quite alright there?” Malfoy gaped at the sight of him, squawking. Much like his pernicious peahen. 

“You!” Harry roared weakly. He pointed the tip of the blasted useless brolly at the scoundrel. “You bloody bastard! Do you have any idea of how late it is, Malfoy? Did you even think about flooing, maybe letting me know you were delayed? You didn’t, did you? And how do I know that, you great prat? Maybe it’s because. You. Never. Did!” 

“Oh, Merlin, Potter--I am so sorry!” Malfoy came bustling towards Harry, hands out, robes flying. “Come here; let me look at you, will you? Lumos! How badly are you injured? Let me see!” 

Without the slightest hesitation, he put his arms right about Harry’s battered torso and hugged him, hard and tight as anything. As if he has been quite sincerely worried, consumed by it. Potion-stained fingers fingers clung as they smoothed down Harry’s spine, as if Harry were something quite dear and precious, and all Harry could see for a moment was the dazzle of the fairy lights reflecting in Malfoy’s grey gaze. 

“Oi, what?” Harry mumbled, face ending up mashed into Malfoy’s cloak. It smelt lovely; all lime, thyme, and lavender. “What’s it now?” 

“Oh my, oh my Merlin, Harry! You’re in a right state!” 

Malfoy let him go abruptly, and drew back the barest pace, patting Harry down still, all over, and peering, gravity coloring his fine eyes dark. His expression was sorely troubled, and he didn’t seem to notice at all when Harry numbly dropped the borrowed Impermeable like a red-hot stone and stared blankly up at him. Just tsked and clucked all the more loudly over Harry’s state and condition. 

“You look absolutely rotten,” he fussed. “Like you’ve been through the war again! A hedge backwards, Harry! Did my stupid Sophie bite you again? She did, didn’t she? That bloody, bloody bird, she’s such a--such a--”

“What.” 

“A right cunt is what, Harry, and I swear to Circe, if I didn’t just somehow bloody care for her so much; can’t even explain it really, but she’s--”

“Are.” 

“But you, you keep getting yourself injured, Harry, or rather she keeps injuring you, and we can’t have that, simply can not; I’ll not allow it, not on my watch! I just--I simply have no idea, not a single clue what--”

“You.”

“To even do about Sophie, Harry, when you really are the only other human being she even considers keeping company with other than me? I can’t just be rid of her--she relies on me now! She’s from a rescue in Hyderabad, all the Girls are--”

“...Doing?” 

Harry, who’d begun by being utterly infuriated, ended by slumping straight back into Malfoy’s renewed embrace with a feeling of weary acceptance. He supposed that if Draco Malfoy wanted so badly to hug him, he wasn't about to say no to it. Much. 

“Really, I’m alright,” he told Draco’s shirtfront. “Most of this is surface.” His spec frames, though, got themselves caught up in Draco’s posh mother-of-pearl buttons. He twisted his head, trying to free them. “You may leave go now, Malfoy. I shan’t fall over, I promise. Though thanks for the hug. Er...That’s nice of you. Very civil.” 

“Really?” Sounding doubtful, Malfoy let go even as Harry lurched back, though his hands lingered in the transaction. “If you say so. But I do want you to come back inside the Manor so I can have a look-see, Potter. I _ insist_. You’ve a nasty welt on your cheekbone, just there.” He pointed it out, the tip of his finger not quite touching skin in deference, Harry presumed, to the ugliness of the wound. “It looks to be...painful. You’re limping, also. Listing, really. To your left.” 

“Oh. That. Yeah, that happened.” 

Harry sighed heavily. Truth was, Harry barely felt that one. It was his arse that absolutely was killing him. 

“Potter, please,” Malfoy reached out yet again and wrapped a warm hand about Harry’s bicep, squeezing gently. “Come inside with me. I’ve a tonne of brilliant healing potions and quite a lot of experience with Pecking Peacock bites, believe me. Let me help you with your wounds. Please?”

“...Well. I--” Harry dithered, hesitating. “It’s late; I should really not, but--”

“No, you should,” Malfoy insisted. “I’ve developed a salve for those deep muscle bruises Sophronia inflicts. It’s still patent pending with the Ministry but it’s honestly the best available, if I do say myself, and I do, but you’ll need to come with me to take advantage of this very fine offer. Privacy, Potter--it’s a thing. You’ll be needing those trousers off if I’m to apply it properly. Now, come along with you. I’ll even give you tea. You look as though you could use a cuppa.” 

“Oh, very well.” Harry sighed again, less heavily. “If I must.” 

He could use a cuppa, at that.

“You absolutely must.” 

Thus Harry found himself being trotted up the white gravel path to the Manor and summarily ushered through the portal. It seemed like no time before he was standing in Malfoy’s bedroom, staring round at the plush decor and anxiously plucking at his collar, sipping his perfect cuppa gingerly. It was all a far distant cry from his dim, memorabilia-laden bedroom at Grimmauld. 

“Ahah! Here you go.” 

“Er?” He looked to Malfoy, who’d emerged from some hidden depository triumphantly bearing a velvety lush white toweling dressing gown, which he thrust at Harry impatiently. “Is that for me? You didn’t say anything about stripping down totally, Malfoy. I thought just my trousers and pants?” 

“Of course it is, Potter.” 

Malfoy blinked curiously at Harry, cocking his chin pointedly and bobbing his damned eyebrows in some sort of interpretive dance. Harry blinked right back at him over the rim of his cup, weary and in pain enough to feel a bit foggy, mentally. Those eyebrows were like Muggle semaphores, a bit, and he could swear there was some sort of coded message being sent him. 

“All your kit off, yes,” Malfoy said flatly. “Don’t want to stain things, do we. But spit-spot, please. Your bum’s not going to rub itself, is it?” Then he grinned, eyes lighting up with mischief. “I suppose you might call this a ‘bum rush’, eh, Potter? But sooner, the better, I say. No need to be in agony a single second longer than you’ve had to already.”

“Er, no?” Harry continued blinking, but more rapidly. “Don’t want to. Well, not anymore than they already are.” 

“No, exactly,” Malfoy agreed as they both regarded Harry’s work garb dubiously. Most shapeless, blue and beige, it did the job alright but wasn’t exactly flattering. “Right, then. I shall apply the salve, obviously, and to do that efficaciously you need be not wearing...that. So, rid yourself of those items offending your body and let’s crack on, shall we? The sooner it’s applied, the sooner you’ll be feeling more the thing.”

“Ah, erm, hmm,” Harry mumbled, giving in to those damned mobile eyebrows and Malfoy’s bright expectant gaze. He set down his cup on the nearest surface, not much noticing when it Vanished itself. “...Okay.” 

“Right,” Malfoy nodded. “Good-oh.”

Ripping his shirt up over his head and shucking his stained, creased denims with a care for his bum, Harry stripped off, immediately shrugging himself into the pre-offered dressing gown. It wasn’t that Harry was especially concerned about being starkers before Malfoy--they’d certainly seen one another in the Quidditch locker room often enough--but still. His person was decorated with bruises, scrapes, scratches and beak marks, and mostly those all were the fault of Malfoy’s bloody Pecking Peacocks. It was awkward, a bit, showing Malfoy exactly what damage had been done him. Especially when Malfoy’s face took on that sorrowful cast and his smile fled away as if it had never been. 

“Oh, Potter,” he murmured softly. “I truly am sorry, you know.” 

“Yes, alright, where did you want me?” Harry asked quickly, turning his back on Malfoy’s sad face and looking about for a convenient settee or something. But there was only Malfoy’s rather enormous bed evident. “Um?” 

He pointed at it. Glanced back over his shoulder to check Malfoy’s reaction. 

“Here? This alright with you?” 

Malfoy seemed rather less his normal relatively smug, serene self and rather more twitchity-fidget. His eyes were hot on Harry like molten pewter, tracking Harry’s every movement. 

“Here?” Harry repeated. “On your bed?” 

“Obviously,” Malfoy drawled, rolling his eyes. “Where else, Potty?”

He abruptly went about readying himself, casting off his traveling robes and rolling up his shirtsleeves with jerky little movements. A wand’s flick at his bed had the duvet Transfiguring itself into yet more acres of plush white toweling and the pillows plumping themselves up high in an anxious flurry. 

“Alright then,” he said, expression smoothing out to bland neutral. “On your front, please. I shall need full access to your rear to apply the salve.” 

“Okay.”

Harry gingerly climbed aboard the sea of mattress and arranged himself accordingly, trying not to groan too loudly when the movement stretched his pain-taut muscles and mottled skin. Really, the cheap stuff from the cut-rate apothecary had never, ever done the job properly and he was rather looking forward to Malfoy’s concoction. After all, he thought, look at his mate Ron, who was bloody thriving. All thanks to Malfoy.

He sighed in pleasure at the feel of the velvety fabric and wriggled down into it, making himself comfortable and making sure to tuck his prick discreetly beneath one thigh. He hoped the folds of his borrowed robe would disguise the budding swell of interest he felt. He was, after all, nude in the bedroom of a very fit Wizard. One who was apparently eager to massage his bum. One whom perhaps he felt more than a passing interest in. 

One who was telegraphing unmistakable signals of being quite interested in Harry.

Most inappropriate, to be sure, but still. Hard to argue with one’s own prick; no moral fibre to them, not an inch. 

“Ready?”

Malfoy didn't wait on a reply and marched up to the bed. He bent over Harry’s sprawled person, rucked up the hem of his dressing gown to waist height and immediately laid cool, oily palms upon Harry’s exposed buttocks, causing Harry to squeak and startle. 

“Whoa, easy now, Potter! Try not to squirm so. This may sting a bit at first.”

“Fucking yes it stings!” Harry gasped, gritting his teeth and clutching at the bolsters, a moue of pain contorting his face. “Bloody ouch!” His cock shriveled instantly; small mercies, he thought. “What the fucking fuck, Malfoy? You couldn’t warm it?”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy replied, sounding very sincere. Harry imagined he was likely scowling over him as his cool hands began the gentlest of movements. 

Malfoy did that sometimes, looking utterly hacked off when he was actually apologetic. It was all part and parcel of sorting out the secret language of his bloody eyebrows, Harry thought. Thank Merlin he’d plenty of practice. 

“It’s the potion; it attunes itself to the normal temperature of your body but it does go on quite cold at the start. Perhaps I should make a few alterations, at that. Um...Potter?” 

His hands were busy all the while. Harry bit back a moan, his recalcitrant John Thomas perking up the instant the ointment heated. Hips, thighs, inner and outer, bum cheeks, backs of his knees where Mr Tumtiddles had rammed him, all those areas were the object of Malfoy’s gentle attentions. But particularly Harry’s arse, which Malfoy massaged assiduously. The potion itself wasn't actually oily so much as very silken and smooth; once it warmed it felt delicious and smelt even better, all pepperminty. Harry shifted without thinking much about it, trying to push his arse into the practised motions of Malfoy’s flexing fingertips and pressing palms. 

“Potter.”

“...Yeah?” Harry jerked to attention. “Whazzit?” 

“You’re terribly black and blue.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet and very grave. “Back here, all over. Even down your legs and up above your waist. Your spine.” He swallowed audibly. Harry winced. Malfoy was likely vastly uncomfortable to be discovering this. It was his terrible bird who was the cause of it, after all. 

“Um. Yeah, so?” 

“Your poor bottom, is all. More of a nightmare palette than healthy skin is all I see: bile yellow and ghastly green and some really sickly purpling patches. And this?” Harry felt the barest tap on the edge of the bandage. “What’s this then? This looks like St Mungo’s work, Harry.”

“Oh, it ishh.” Harry nodded his head blearily, slurring as the potion did its job. Admirably so; Draco Malfoy was no slouch when it came to brewing. All his discomfort was receding posthaste, leaving behind a lovely glow of well-being. “Yeah, had to go there. Lassh night.” He grimaced into the appropriated pillow. Really, that Welcome Witch had the most strident of bellows, announcing to all and sundry that ‘Harry James Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, here for an arse cheek wound, stat!’ 

“That was--oh! Are you saying this was all Sophie’s doing, Harry?” Malfoy’s hands stilled momentarily; Harry grimaced again at the hushed shock in his voice and nodded again. None of his other charges had ever dared peck him like Sophie had. “My Girl, she did this to you? And you never said a thing to me about it, all this time? No wonder you didn’t want to--of course you wouldn’t--”

“Shhh! Shut it, Draco,” Harry growled loudly, and stuck up his rump, budging it back firmly into those golden healing hands. “Don’ wanna talk about that now, alright? Just--just keep on with the rubbing. _ Please_.”

“...Oh. Alright.” 

There was a moment’s silence between them. 

Draco went back to it with even greater care and Harry stopped himself from drooling onto Draco’s pillows but only barely. It felt calm and peaceful and not at all as worrisome as Harry had thought it might be. Indeed, he could happily envision Draco applying his special salve to Harry for days on end. His prick, apparently, could also blissfully envision same and hardened pleasurably in response to Draco’s gentle motions. 

Then it struck Harry, who’d been noticing a few things through his happy haze without really even noticing. Draco’s respiration for one. Even an ex-Auror with minimal training would note his rate of breathing was elevated and rapid. Rather the same as Harry’s own. Much like both their pulses, for he could feel Draco’s fluttering away madly where his wrists brushed skin in passing and he could feel the thunder of his own heart in his flushing ears. 

And Draco’s hands? They were quite hot as they massaged away all Harry’s Pecking Peahen pains. Almost like brands, and slippery not just with potion but also with gathering perspiration. He was shifting around, too; moving to kneel upon the mattress, slinging a long leg over Harry so he could straddle him as he worked. Presumably all for better access to Harry’s bum. But sexy as sin all the same, ‘specially where his trousered thighs brushed insistently against the hollows of Harry’s naked, lotion-smoothed hips. 

Draco was quite dreadfully quiet, though, which was totally unlike the Draco Malfoy Harry knew and--_ah_. Harry’s eyes popped open. 

“Um.” He squirmed, twisting his head to try and get a good peep at Draco over his shoulder. “Are you quite alright back there? Draco?”

“...Yes?” Draco ducked his chin and his hair flopped forward, providing a shifting platinum-strand veil for him to hide behind.

“You’re certain?” 

“Yes!” Draco sniffed loudly and tapped the corner of the bandage again. But carefully. One eyebrow went absurdly high up, radiating disdain of Harry's question. “Of course. Why ever would I not be? Now, may I remove this? I’d rather like to be thorough with this salve.” 

“Oh...of course,” Harry mumbled, and dragged his strange fancies out of the forbidden territories they seemed to want to invade. 

Naturally Malfoy meant nothing by any of this; he was merely interested in helping an old acquaintance with a personal problem. Just as he’d sworn he’d been interested in saving Ron’s life solely for the purpose of testing the efficacy of that one super-rare Healing potion not even St Mungo’s potions laboratory had on hand in an emergency. Because it was so difficult to brew and the ingredients were extraordinarily expensive. 

Huh, Harry thought. “Right. Whatever you like, Malfoy.”

“Thanks. Here goes,” Malfoy murmured coolly and promptly spelled off the bandage. Harry could practically feel his keen eyes scanning the puckered, scarred skin revealed, an all-encompassing gaze which seemed to wash over all of Harry’s exposed bits, and not just where the disgruntled Healer had cursorily cast his magical stitches. 

“...That right cunt, Harry,” Draco remarked after a horribly speaking pause, his voice gone utterly bland and toneless, like a dull porridge. “I’ll skin her alive and use her feathers for stuffing the cushions. I promise you.” 

“Oh!” 

Harry dug his face out of Malfoy’s pillow and wrenched fully about to face Draco, rolling a wary eye at him. Draco, who’d stopped completely with the potion application and had the flats of his palms held up and away from Harry’s bum and who showed not the slightest intent of starting it up again. 

“No! Soph’s not so bad, Draco. You know. Sure, she has her moments.” He shimmied his shoulders, best he could do in lieu of a shrug, given he was rather trapped between Draco’s thighs and hampered by the tangled up dressing gown. “She’s a rescue, after all. Remember? Who knows what sort of suffering she’s been through, to act this way. Need to--we need to make allowances.” 

“Oh, yes?” Malfoy was clearly furious. His nostrils flared and his eyebrows climbed sky-high. "Allowances, you say? What sort of allowances? To the point where my bloody pet bird does this sort of damage to you on a daily basis and you’re afraid to say something, Harry? I think not!” He shook his head sharply, dragging one potion-coated hand through his hair without even seeming to notice. “Oh, no. I’ll not have this. I shall place an advert in the Quibbler. There must be some fool out there with a need for a dangerous creature such as Sophronia. P’raps a Zoo.” 

“What? No! Stop saying that!” 

Harry levered himself up, fighting the boneless feeling the application had left behind, and grasped at Draco’s legs for balance. He was much the shorter, sitting as he was with Draco towering over him like some avenging archangel of Muggle yore, but it was sufficient. Sufficient to let him meet Draco’s glinting eyes dead on.

“Just. Stop.”

“What?” Draco demanded, unappeased, unrelenting. “Why not, Harry? She’s hurt you--hurt you unbearably. I won’t stand for it.” 

“No, Draco.” Harry sighed, drinking in Draco’s stricken face, the telltale slumped shoulders outlined in their crisp pale linen, the lax hands fallen to laying uselessly turned up upon his strong thighs. Their fingers brushed in passing, and Harry smiled at the sight. “That’s not right. I’ll not allow it, either. She was abused, you’ve gone and saved her from an absolute misery, and now we’ve both of us taken on the care of her, you and I. Don’t you see, Draco? We can’t just give her up! We’re just the same as her, really--abused animals!” 

“Pardon, but _ what_...what did you just say?”

It was an idea Harry had been thinking of, pondering, exploring, for quite some time but had never quite managed to fully wrestle into words. Here _ he _ was, having taken to pet minding like a veritable Niffler to thieving, and then also here was _ Draco_, who’d taken to collecting difficult strays and seemed as well to want to be potioning the poverty-stricken and needy at as close to free-of-all-fees as possible. 

Because there was literally no way Draco was actually raking in those Galleons he’d been boasting of, not with the sheer quantity of rare and expensive ingredients he was routinely dumping into his cauldrons. Harry should know; he was at the Manor often enough and he wasn't completely unobservant. Far from it. 

As for Harry, he’d never actually earned any sort of real profit at pet minding, not with all the odd hours, not when he went about spending oodles on other people’s animals and then donating any he’d left over to shelters. And certainly not when he scaled his fees so that people in need could afford him. 

And sometimes, Harry was pretty damned certain, it worked out that creatures who’d been treated poorly, whether by circumstance or design, had an excess of love to share--a real requirement to nurture. 

As _ he _ felt so often, even for Draco’s blasted Pecking Peahen, Sophronia the Sadist. For all her faults she was strangely affectionate. She preened his rumpled hair with that same nasty beak she used to nip at his arse, she always came and strolled along beside him when he took Mr Tumtiddles out for a romp-roll-and-wander and she made a point to share with Harry that special bird feed Draco spent a fortune importing, often sprinkling it on Harry’s sandwiches at luncheon. All the Girls set up a cheery clatter whenever they spied Harry, and came rushing to him for pets and treats, their little beady eyes alight with fondness--and not one of them really pecked him until it came near time for him to leave the Manor.

They bloody loved him, those stupid silly birds, and there was a damned decent chance that Draco Malfoy felt something along the same lines for Harry, too. Because he was looking at Harry with eyes dark with want and worry, care and fondness, and yes--a rather noticeable amount of sheer animal lust. 

Trouble was, as Harry knew full well, Draco was a bloody Slytherin, and bloody Slytherins weren’t exactly the type to wear their stupidly large and loyal hearts on their robe’s sleeves, were they?

Merlin’s sake, one only had to look to one stellar example: Pansy Parkinson, who pampered her Pekes to distraction, all the while complaining bitterly of them. But never in their hearing, mind--and her version of pampering was never the awful spoiling sort. Happier, healthier, more well-adjusted wee yappy Muggle doggies Harry had never yet met. 

Something, clearly, had to be done. Or else Harry would be forced to follow through on his threat to stop being Draco’s pet minder and Draco might very well feel truly obligated to abandon his pesky, painful, precious peahens to some far distant Zoo. And that wouldn’t do. 

“You,” Harry said, determined to forge ahead, despite the thousand year stare Draco had obstinately slipped into at barest hint of his own purported loving-kindness. “_You _ don’t make any money at that business of yours, do you? It’s sneaky charity is what you’re up to, Draco, and don’t think I don’t realize it. St Mungo’s didn’t have the potion Ron needed because no one--not even a bloody hospital--can afford to keep that sort of brew on hand! And yet you come up with it in less than twelve hours and for no good reason other than you wanted to--_you wanted to! _” 

“So?” 

Collecting himself and whisking a conjured handkerchief out of the air to wipe off his hands, Draco promptly removed himself from Harry and thence from his bed. He rose and padded away in his stocking feet, turning his back in a way Harry knew was quite obstinately deliberate. 

“What if I did? I owed him a life debt, didn’t I? Now it’s been paid, is all.”

“That’s _ not _ all there is to it. Liar.” 

Harry, abandoned, sat up properly and tugged his borrowed robe about him. His arse felt fantastic, absolutely tip-top, but his heart was pounding away in his chest and his gut felt twisted, awash in acid. 

“Come back here and face me when I’m talking to you, Draco. Or are you too scared of what I’m saying to do it? Afraid I’ll pry into some of your other secrets?”

“Excuse _you_?”

Draco spun ‘round and smiled over at Harry like some cornered feral creature, all flashing canines and grim grey eyes. He paced nearer, all the same, and Harry released the breath he’d barely realized he was holding. 

“Fuck right off. I am not afraid of much of anything, Potter--not any more, at least. It’s my business how I choose to run Motions In Potions, ta very much, and I say Weasley’s potion was given in payment for a life debt. Not quite certain, exactly, why you’ve decided you’ve a say in _my_ business. But you always were a bit of a nosy prick, so.” 

He elevated those thin platinum arcs of eyebrows at Harry, expressing such great scorn with their alpine heights it was like being slammed by an Arctic blizzard in the midst of Saharan sand storm.

“Oi!” Harry flinched. "You!"

“Oi, indeed, you cretin. Now, if we’re all finished here--and I believe we are, quite--I shall have to ask you to get yourself dressed and take your leave, as I’ve business yet to transact tonight and several other urgent--”

“Oi! Draco!” 

Horrified by the suddenly gone-wonky-and-horridly-pear-shapedness of what he’d hoped might be a sort of meeting of the minds, hopefully also the hearts and--oh, and fuck it but _yes_\--the bodies, Harry scrambled off the bed and strode straight over to stand before his slit-eyed, pointy-chinned, utterly wrong-headed ex-nemesis. In fact, he shot over so quickly he nearly ran headlong into the bloody berk and had to clutch at Draco’s shoulders to catch his balance. 

“Are you bloody barmy? Gone soft in the head?” Harry demanded, firming his grip when his quarry tried to jerk away. “I’m not at all telling you how to manage your business, Draco--I would never! I think it’s amazing, what you’re doing, don’t you see? I’m admiring you, you thick-witted sod--not accusing you! Merlin!”

“You’re not,” Draco said flatly, stilling his motion. “Indeed." He ticked off a list staccato, raising a finger at each point. "Accusing me of being sneaky and self-serving. Telling me I’m nothing more than--what was it again? Oh, right--an ‘abused animal’. Leaving me, Potter, in the fucking lurch.” 

“I’m not, I tell you!” 

“You said you were, just this morning.” Draco’s hand dropped, his face was a mask. No one other than Harry--and perhaps Pansy--would ever suspect there was a deep hurt writ there, in the parting of his lips, the shadows under his eyes, the faint tremorous clench of his fine jaw. “You said it was the last time you were coming over, today, this morning. That you’d not be returning, ever. Not that I blame you, having seen what Sophie’s done to you, but I’ve been dreading it all day, coming home.”

“Have you?” Harry breathed and risked the quickest of glances downwards, just to confirm what he suspected was true. “You never mentioned that, earlier.” 

“Why would I?” Draco shrugged, sourly twisting his lips. “You didn’t seem to be of a mind to hear me say it, did you?” 

“Draco--”

“And, honestly, Potter, I’m not clear on why it would it would concern you now.” Draco’s tone went sharp as Mr Tumtiddle’s handsome claws. “You’ve declared more than once that you’re washing your hands of me--of us. I don’t think it matters much what I say or don’t say at this point.” 

“But--it does.” Harry swallowed, realizing his clutching hands had taken to rubbing at Draco’s tense shoulders of their own volition. That was fine, all good; he kept on with it. “What I really wanted--and yeah, I know I’m not always the best at saying things like this, at least not when it really matters--but what I really, truly wanted, was for you to be here. To be home, with them, with your stupid peahens and your idiot monster Kneazle and your ancient old owl, Draco--and with me. Too. I’m not a bloody convenience, Draco Malfoy, I’m a pet minder and real pet minders work with the people just as much as they ever do with the animals!” 

“Is...that so? I thought.” Draco’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. “Huh. I suppose I thought it was the opposite. That you couldn’t wait for me to leave.” 

“No. Again, no, Draco.” Harry laughed softly, colour rising in his cheeks. “It’s true there are some clients I’d rather not spend a lot of my time with but mostly we all rub along swimmingly. And then there was you, who sped off like a crazy bludger the moment I stepped through the doorway. Meanwhile I was having my arse half bitten off nearly every other day by your crazy bird and your other ones were swarming me for affection. When you were about for more than half a second, you’d blow hot and cold, Draco. One moment you’re definitely flirting, the next it’s all ‘You owe me, Potter’. I dreaded coming here--but I also wanted it, rather desperately.”

“I--I’m sorry, Harry.” Draco was no longer stiff as the proverbial under Harry’s stroking hands. His eyes warmed, the opaque light grey gone all dark with widening pupil; a matching blush tinged his neck and stained his cheek bones. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted. Or even if you wanted. I mean, I knew I did, certainly, but you. You’re a bloody puzzle. I can’t always--you have the habit of driving me half mad with distraction, you know? I just know--I just know I want you. Any way I may.” 

“Same goes,” Harry smiled, and dared push forward sufficient to match up their hips. 

It felt hot, and right, and like everything Harry had been suspecting he might desire for rather a long time. His robe had gaped open, the belt tie flapping; Draco had been sporting a very telling bulge in those fucking bespoke trousers of his, still did, more than than before, and Merlin, but maybe this was finally some progress? 

“I’ve spent far too much time thinking about Sophie’s master when I should’ve been keeping a better eye on her damned beak, yeah? This isn’t all her fault, Draco.” 

“Yes, well,” Draco muttered, ducking his fair head down so that his lips grazed Harry’s temple. “I spend far too much time mentally undressing you, Harry, when I’m supposed to be brewing Pepper Ups for broody peacocks and teaching them their proper manners. Do you think you might forgive me?” 

“I might,” Harry whispered, relishing the deliberately slow drift of Draco’s lips across his faded scar and along his hairline. “But I’ll require some convincing.” He grinned when Draco immediately grasped his hips, hauling them closer than before. “Yes, like that. More along those lines would be--ah!--brilliant.”

“Uh--huh,” Draco groaned low and began walking Harry backwards. “I do my best convincing in a prone position, as it happens. And--”

“Mmm?” Harry, chuffed with this rapid turnabout, helped matters along by falling backwards into the bed and hastily yanking his dressing down off his body. His arse felt fantastic, which was all to the good, as he’d the delightful feeling he might be putting it to use in the very near future. “Do you now? And what?” 

“And,” Draco growled, all deep and blood-stirring, “I happen to have some other extra-special potions I’ve brewed recently right here, in this drawer--if you’ll allow me?” 

He dropped his trousers and hopped out of his pants all in one smooth motion and deftly helped himself to the contents of his nightstand with the hand not holding his wand. His bespoke shirt fluttered to the floor as he raised a bottle of glittery rose-colored oil triumphantly.

“Allow you what, exactly?” Harry teased, lolling back and smiling. He’d been wondering for ages what it meant when Draco did that one thing with his eyebrows. The sort of half quirk up, half wiggle down thing, and it was becoming clear it meant Draco was gagging after a shag like there was no tomorrow. “More favours from your pet minder, Malfoy? Because I’m only coming back tomorrow if you promise you’ll be here.” 

“Oh, that shan’t be a hitch, Harry,” Draco drawled and fell down gracefully--and achingly slowly--atop Harry, his one palm oily and slick with quite a different potion than the last one. He placed it meaningfully on the curve of Harry’s left arse cheek and smiled at Harry just as cheekily as he gave a squeeze. “As you’ll be here for breakfast--and so shall I be. And then for luncheon--as will I, of course. Tea, after that--for which I’ll be joining you in the partaking. Then there’s supper--which we’ll be having together, naturally. ”

“Yes, stop,” Harry giggled, and lifted his hips and brilliantly healed bum in the way Draco seemed to want him to do. The potion slick hand and fingers got busy. “Ah--hah! I think I’ve got it, ta. Poor P-Parsy. I shall have to send him to cancel all my appointments.” 

“Poor Parsy indeed,” Draco murmured, nipping Harry’s lingering grin as he fingered him. “Poor Draco, more like, languishing here in bed with his very own private Potter and with not a single snog to call his own. D’you think you might stop gabbing, Harry?” 

“Maybe--oh!” 

* * *

“Oh, indeed, Harry,” Draco groaned and rolled off Harry, sometime later. “Aright there?” 

“Mmm, yes. Bit splendid, really.” Harry smiled sleepily. He spelled away the wet spot whilst Draco obligingly followed suit with a few general refreshing and cleaning charms. “Ta. So. Tell me. When did you first start undressing me, Draco? Mentally, I mean.” 

“Ah,” Draco grinned, busily folding Harry into the crook of his arm and securing him with a firm leg over. “That would be telling.” 

“Hmm, I rather think we’re at the point of telling, yeah? So, you first, then. Go on.” 

“Oh. Sly thing.” Draco grinned lazily, those expressive eyebrows gone all fond, his eyes hazy silver with satisfaction. “Do you happen to have a very long period of free time available?” 

“I do, as it happens,” Harry replied, snugging himself firmly against his lover. “Ages and ages.” 

“And will you be telling me when it was you first did the same to me, as well?” Draco prodded, eyes a bit more alert. “Because that would be the fair course, Harry. The high road.” 

“I will,” Harry said promptly and bussed Draco right on the tip of his nose. “After you, though. Well? Go on; I’m listening.” 

“Bugger,” Draco sighed, and settled against their shared bolster, arm cozily tight around Harry’s shoulders. “Right, Fourth Year, Quidditch locker room showers, our first autumn practice scrum; that was the first time I’d actual confirmed visual material to wank to--but then, even before that, Harry--oh, Merlin, when was it I really noticed that arse of yours? Years, maybe...likely it’s in my journal. P’raps it was late Third, when we all--”

Harry fell asleep to the sound of Draco chattering on, and slept deeply and soundly with the knowledge he’d likely still be talking--or start up again--when they both woke up and shared breakfast before going out to walk Sophie through her Pleasant Peacocks As Pets manners lessons, provided by the nice Witch at the Eeylops in Hyderabad. Then they’d enjoy a romp, run and wander with Mr Tumtiddles and p’raps give Parsifal a little aerial exercise chasing Charmed owl treats. All in all, it was likely to prove a topping, excellent, absolutely brilliant day ahead for the proprietor of Potter’s Pet Minding Services--and for his very best client, one Draco Malfoy, of Motions in Potions, Ltd. 

**Author's Note:**

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